The Calm Before the Storm
by Swimming the Same Deep Waters
Summary: Dimitri's story before meeting Rose. What made him the man he is? I'm rating it M because I'm sure I'll weave some naughtiness in there later on ;) THIS WORK ON HOLD WHILE I FINISH MY OTHER STORY I NEVER TOLD YOU I LOVE YOU
1. Prologue

**So I am not sure how I should take this story. I was thinking I'd write from here to where Rose and Dimitri meet? Not sure whether to make him the Dimitri we all know and love, or whether to make him something else (but show how he ended up that way). Open to suggestions!**

 **Thanks Richelle Mead for writing such awesome characters which compel us to continue telling their stories :D**

 **Prologue**

He's only been back a couple of hours, and already Mumma is crying. Karolina has taken off to her boyfriend's house. Sonja is out the back with Yeva, picking the vegetables for dinner. Little Viktoria is inside with Mumma and Randall. He's brought her a doll. Ugly porcelain thing in a frilly dress. Viktoria loves it, of course. It's not often she gets anything new, and certainly nothing that expensive.

But you can't eat a doll.

From my position in the hallway, I can see the three of them through the door crack. Randall towering over Mumma. Viktoria sitting on the couch behind Mumma, playing with her doll. Even at six, I realised, Viktoria instinctively knew to put Mumma between herself and Randall.

Mumma asked him about money. The roof is leaking. Karolina needs school books.

"Is that all you ever think about?" Randall roared at her. "I don't _have_ to come and visit you, you know!" Plucking his hand-tooled leather wallet from expensive tailored pants he opened it, throwing a fistful of rubles onto the floor in front of her. "You want money? Then pick it up!"

I hate him! Hate the way he treats her. Treats us. But even more than that I hate the look on Mumma's face as she eagerly eyeballs the notes on the worn carpet in front of her. I can see her mentally calculating how far she can make the crumpled notes stretch.

Sinking onto her hands and knees in front of him, I can hear her appeasing him. Apologising as she gathers up the precious notes, carefully putting them into her pocket. I see his victorious look as she abases herself in front of him. And I hate her for doing it. Hate that she puts up with this from him.

An ugly expression creeping across his face, I can see his decision to kick her seconds before the first blow lands. Catching her by surprise, I can hear her astounded gasp before she rolls on to her side, curling up to protect stomach and ribs from the kicks he was now delivering in quick succession.

"Papa! Papa DON'T!" Viktoria was wailing. Clearly terrified, she was backing towards the door. Turning to her he screamed "This is nothing to do with you! Leave or you will be next!". Viktoria fled the room in terror, barely noticing me in the hallway as she fled towards the backyard and the safety of Yeva.

Back in the sitting room, Randall was still kicking Mumma. I could hear her whimpers as blow after blow landed on her unprotected back and legs. "I'm sorry, Randall" she cried.

Hearing the pleading in her voice ended it. Throwing open the door so hard it came off its top hinge, I stormed into the room. Approaching Randall I punched him three times in quick succession before he'd even realised what was happening. A very satisfying crunch accompanied each punch.

While I was only 13, I was already over 6-foot tall. Once long and lanky, the novice training sessions I'd started at St. Basil's were paying off – both with my punches as well as my physique. I was already more than a match for Randall, and he knew it.

"Don't,"

Punch

"you"

Punch

"dare"

Punch

"touch"

Punch

"my Mumma again" I finished, delivering a final crushing blow to the bloodied man now cowering on the couch in front of me.

"No, Dimitri! Don't" Mumma cried, trying to pull me away from him. I probably would have continued, had Yeva not come racing into the room at that moment, swearing profusely and waving the large knife she used in the garden.

"Enough!" she shouted at the three of us, quickly sizing up the situation.

"UP!" she ordered Randall, brandishing the knife in his direction. "This is my house and you are not to enter it again".

Seeing Randall was incapable of walking by himself, I pulled him up from the couch by his jacket. Walking him past the door hanging off its hinge, I led him to the front door, opening it and thrusting him through it.

"This is not the last you'll hear about this!" he threatened, using the cuff of his white shirt to wipe blood from his face.

"It had better be, old man" I told him ominously. "If I see you anywhere near here again, it will be the last time anyone sees you" I continued.

Then with a final look of disgust at him I closed the door.


	2. Chapter 1 - Anton

I was not quite sure why I was angry - I just knew I was. Giving the punching-bag in the novice training gym my full attention, I delivered powerful punches and kicks in quick succession, all the while imagining it was Anton Szelsky's face. In an already shitty place, he was shit-King as far as I was concerned.

With fair hair and green eyes, at fifteen Anton was already a big deal with the ladies of St Basil's. Of course, the fact his family was rich beyond all belief and one of the twelve royal Moroi families didn't hurt his cause, either. Unfortunately he was also an arsehole of the greatest magnitude. As demonstrated, yet again, today.

'Moroi Culture' was a drag at the best of times. Memorising long lists of royal marriages and political alliances was understandably boring, yet our teacher Mr Gavrilov had the unique ability to make even the odd historic battle or Strigoi attack sound dull. Still, I was resolved to score top marks in this and every other class. Unlike Anton and his little clique of Moroi, I wasn't from a rich or powerful family – so any opportunities coming my way would be because I'd worked to create them.

Trying to tune out his whispers to his mates as he sat behind me, and instead give my attention to Mr Gavrilov's account of the Tarus / Lazar alliance in 13th Century Romania, my interest was suddenly piqued when I heard Anton snigger "Wouldn't mind doing that to Yelena!"

Underneath the table my hands involuntarily turned to fists. Yelena Ilin was a Dhampir in our year. From an exclusively Dhampir community an hour or so from my home of Baia, Yelena was the eldest of three girls - all of whom attended St Basil's. With long straight black hair, and soulful dark eyes, she was both extraordinarily beautiful as well as painfully shy. To be honest, I was surprised to hear Anton mention her at all. Yelena usually slipped under the radar, escaping the notice of Moroi like Anton.

"Yep – there's a lot of things I'd not mind doing to Yelena" he continued suggestively. Even without looking at him, I could hear the ugly sneer on his face. How _any_ woman found him attractive was completely beyond me! Right on cue, his three or four little sycophants chortled encouragingly. Anton was rarely seen without his gang of royal Moroi followers. Having the unique distinction of being as stupid as they were rich, Anton's fan club wasted no opportunity to stroke his gargantuan ego.

Fortunately it was close to the end of the period, so I was spared from overhearing any more of Anton's filth. Still, I made a mental note to listen out for Yelena's name in the future. Anton had a horrid reputation with women, and Dhampirs in particular. If he was setting his sights on Yelena, I wanted to know about it.

Standing quickly as the bell rang, I packed my books into my bag and walked between the desks to the front of the classroom, arriving at the doorway at the same time as Anton and his gang. I pushed forward, walking through the doorway, causing Anton to pull up abruptly.

"Watch it, Belikov!" Anton snarled. "Yeah watch it, Belikov!" one of his minions parroted.

"Sorry, Szelsky. Didn't see you down there." I drawled, pulling myself up to my full height of nearly 6 foot 3. At somewhere around 5 foot 6, Anton was on the shorter side, even for a Moroi. Looking like he'd like to take things further, I lifted an eyebrow at him. As well as 9 inches of height, thanks to twice-daily training sessions I also had a good 55 pounds on him. All of it solid muscle. In any stoush between us, I knew I wouldn't be the loser.

"I think you need to remember your place!" Anton replied angrily.

"Oh? My place is looking pretty good from up here" I mocked, looking around above his head.

With a shove Anton pushed past me and out into the corridor, followed by his crude retinue.

"You really shouldn't provoke him like that you know" came a voice to my left. Looking over I saw Ivan Zeklos. Like Anton he was both rich and royal, however thankfully that's where the similarities ended. With a dry sense of humour, and a gift for impersonation that bordered on genius, Ivan was great fun to be around.

"How was Slavic Art?" I asked – referring to the elective he'd chosen in place of Moroi Culture.

"Yeah not bad" Ivan replied. "We're studying ' _The Madonna and Child'_ again – so lots of tits" he teased, mock lasciviously. Honestly! If anyone overheard him, they'd think he was both profane and a pervert. In truth he was actually a really nice guy.

"So what's Szelsky done this time?" Ivan queried, referring to my altercation with him.

"Aww just the usual. Honestly the guy is such a jerk" I grumbled. I wasn't sure why, but I didn't want to tell Ivan about what Anton had said about Yelena.

Walking towards the cafeteria for lunch, Ivan kept up a running monologue of jokes and funny annotations about the students that we passed. While his observations were bitingly astute, they were also delivered with a smile that belied their severity. Ivan genuinely liked most of our fellow students – and while he often poked fun at them, it was generally done in good spirit. He was equally as able to laugh at himself - some of his funniest jokes were self-deprecating remarks about himself.

At the cafeteria, we moved in to line and loaded up our trays. Ivan with a chicken and mushroom dish and salad. Me with large serves of Pelmeni, Zharkoye and a bowl of Borcsh.

"What?" I asked, seeing Ivan eye my loaded tray. "I have Advanced Combat this afternoon, followed by Weight Training and after class I need to do my afternoon workout. I'll be starving by dinner time!"

My Dhampir genes meant I burned a huge amount of calories – more when I exercised. With twice daily workouts, plus physical classes every afternoon, I'd often have seconds or sometimes thirds at lunchtime. Ivan, in comparison, ate next to nothing - supplementing his diet with human blood from the campus feeders.

After watching me clear my tray and then a second, he stood. "I'm heading to the feeders. Your next class is in the gym – walk with me?".

Walking past Anton and his crew on the way to the door I heard them joking and laughing. Everything about them pissed me off, I thought with irritation. But I really needed to get better control of myself. It didn't pay to aggravate a Moroi royal – even if he was fifteen and irrefutably an arsehole.

On the ground floor I lined up with Ivan as he waited for a feeder. While he could survive without drinking human blood, he'd be irritable and poor company. So most days he popped down for a quick visit to the feeders at the end of lunch. While Moroi drinking blood is something I'd grown up knowing about, just quietly the idea of drinking from another living being grossed me out. Ivan had assured me there was nothing unpleasant about it, but I wasn't sold. Give me a few plates of food any day!

Waiting while Ivan saw a feeder, I noticed Yelena standing a few people behind me in the queue. As a Dhampir she didn't need to feed, but she was there waiting with one of her Moroi friends. Smiling at her, she returned a shy one to me. We didn't really know one another well, yet we shared a camaraderie of sorts. Being Dhampir from towns not too far away from one another, we'd seen each other on the train to and from school each term for as long as we could remember. Also both coming from single parent families we understood the value of money, having first hand experience of the lack of it.

Emerging refreshed from the feeder, Ivan walked jauntily back to join me.

"What have you got up next?" I enquired quickly, hoping he had not noticed me smiling at Yelena.

"Elemental Control, then Russian Literature" he responded.

"I'll take Combat and Training any day" I joked, walking towards the gym down the corridor from the feeders while Ivan headed to the stairs and back up to the teaching rooms for the afternoon.

Advanced Combat was interesting today. Guardian Kozlov had recently started us on stake training. Using blunt plastic stakes we took turns fighting one another trying to land a fatal blow. Dull clear plastic, each 'stake' had an internal pressure censor, which could determine the thrust with which it was deployed. If a strike was delivered with sufficient momentum, the stake would light up red – signalling a potentially fatal blow. Twice in the hour-long session I'd landed successful blows in the vicinity of my opponent's heart. Not a Strigoi take-down by any means – but I was the only student who'd managed to do so.

With a spring in my step I continued on to Weight Training and Conditioning, which seemed today to be more about endurance. As soon as we got there all novices were sent on a 5-mile run. It actually would have been pleasant, had it not been a few degrees above freezing outside. Muttering curses the entire way, I pushed myself to finish the run as quickly as possible and return to the gym and the end of class.

After a hot shower I returned to the gym for my second personal workout session for the day. Most novices did a daily morning workout, or one after dinner, but the slot immediately after the afternoon's physical classes was a quiet time in the gym, and consequently one of my favourite times to workout. Having done weights this morning, this afternoon I was focussing on cardio and kickboxing.

Using the alone time to think about Anton, I pondered why his words today had troubled me so much. It was no worse than he'd said about many other female students. Yet somehow it had bothered me. Maybe it's because Yelena was almost from home? And not a lot older than my sister Sonja?

Yes, I decided, with a final angry kick at the punching bag. That must be it.

Throwing my gloves and towel into my gym bag I headed back to the showers for a quick rinse before heading up to dinner.


End file.
